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Luna, The Rise of a Bipolar Superhero -- parts 1 - 3 - Fiction Serial by Louise M. Hart

Part 1


Shelagh and Arthur scrambled over the cemetery gates. The moon cast menacing shadows on the ground below and beckoned them to cross the hallowed turf. They often visited the graves during daylight, but this was their first evening visit. Shelagh’s sturdy legs helped break her fall. Following her, Arthur crashed to the ground, like a bird stunned mid-flight, and began to whimper. “Don’t be such a babby,” Said Shelagh, irritation seeping into her colloquial speech.

At 16 years old Arthur was Shelagh’s senior by just 1 year. He brushed his trousers with his skinny hands and glared at his friend. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into doing these things?” Sensing his irritation, Shelagh grabbed Arthur’s hand and led him to the gravestones.

“Remember, Keats and Yeats are on my side, Wilde is on yours.” She said, releasing her long hair from a ponytail. They dodged in and out of the gravestones; hand-in-hand, like conjoined twins whom no man or woman could separate. “Stop,” said Shelagh leaning back against the most ornate gravestone in the cemetery. “Here lies the body of Stephen Patrick Morrissey,” She began to quote the inscription on the stone, “He smiled... and then he died.”

“Have you ever done it... with a girl, Arthur?” She asked. The dark sky concealed Arthur’s blushes; nevertheless he turned his face from Shelagh’s expectant eyes. “Rimbaud was a queer... and Mr Wilde, of course.”

“I’m not a queer, I’m homosexual,” said Arthur, bending her over the gravestone.

9 months later Shelagh went into labour. “I told you, you should have kept your knickers on,” said her Mother, as Shelagh dug her nails into her Mother’s hand and screamed in anguish. “But, I don’t want a babby, our Mom.”

The hospital staff had never witnessed a labour quite like it. Shelagh’s waters broke 48 hours before she delivered her baby. She writhed in pain, like a soul possessed, but the baby did not seem to want to appear. Eventually, the resistant creature’s head crowned, but even when the midwife used forceps, she would not make an entrance. Fearful of damaging the baby and her exhausted Mother, she paged the consultant obstetrician, who arrived promptly.

Entering with a swish of his regal head, Dr Heart examined Shelagh and announced with a glint in his eye, “We’ll get the bugger out.” He produced his own personalised pair of forceps, solid gold and initialised, flicked his wrist and the baby finally appeared.

The moon was unusually bright and almost red, soaking the delivery room in a crimson glare of bloodied light. The baby howled as loudly as a wounded beast, her face raw with fury. “Put IT back inside,” screamed Shelagh. But, when the doctor looked down at the infant, he smiled. For his thoughts knew that he had found The One.

Part 2

Many Moons Later

20 years later, Luna sat outside the railway station in Brumingham City, the centre of her failed dreams. Beside her rested the battered porkpie hat she had bought in more fruitful times. It contained a 5 pence coin that someone had discarded because they had too much loose change in their pocket. “Is this all I’m worth?” She thought.

She stood up and began to walk aimlessly. She had nowhere to go and no one to tell.

Luna imagined the pavement swallowing her up in one concave whole, only to spit her out, again. Her limbs became disengaged from her puny torso, her head falling to the ground with an indifferent squelch. A fragmented thing, she looked down and perceived the regurgitated remains of her former self.

That morning she had woken beneath a particularly fine oak tree in a park her homeless comrades frequented. Claiming that she wanted more privacy, her only friend had evicted her from her sofa the previous evening. She really meant that supporting the strange and unpredictable young woman Luna had become, had destroyed her as unequivocally as if she had received a round of bullets to the head.

The world looked different from yesterday. Hovering between her and her surroundings, an invisible veil obscured Luna’s perceptual field. She wanted to reach out, but her mind recoiled from the scene. All day, she had been aware of a noise in her head. It had begun as a steady, but irritating hum and gradually escalated to murmurs. But, as Luna walked among the crowds, the murmurs grew louder.

“Look at the arse on her.”

“How much was the girl in the other shop?”

“Reality is a social construct...”



“I’ve been itching down below.”

And then...

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